He's Always Watching
by VodkandCoke
Summary: One-shot. Kyle is committed to an insane asylum for seeing the ghost of someone who should be dead.


White.

It surrounds me like cold blanket, offering little warmth and comfort. It's only purpose is to steal the air from my lungs. Choke me. Suffocate me. But maybe it's just me losing my sense of reality. Time means nothing when you're surrounded by four white walls with no one for company except the vindictive ghost of your enemy. But I guess I deserve it. I mean, it is my fault he's dead. But if I'm honest with myself, even if I had had nothing to do with it, he would have chosen to stay in purgatory and haunt me anyway. He was always an asshole.

I look up. The orderly is coming in with my medicine. It's supposed to keep me from hallucinating. But they never works because I'm not crazy and there really is a ghost stalking me. That's my proof. My sound reasoning for believing that I really haven't lost my mind. As soon as the orderly comes in, she goes out. She never said a word. But that's OK. None of them ever do, and even if they did I probably wouldn't say anything either way.

Everything I wanted to say has been said. It hasn't made a difference. If anything it makes things worse. But that's how it's always been. No one's ever listened to me. Even when it was right in front of their drunken, red-neck, inbred faces. Even my best friend, Stan, sometimes doubted me. And that hurts more than anything else.

I close my eyes, tired of being blinded by the light. I stay like that for a while, but eventually the need to open them and escape the darkness behind my lids is too persistent to ignore. The moment I do that I regret my decision. He's back. Standing – floating? In front of me with that stupid, smug smirk on his fat cocky face. I clench my fists and grit my teeth. I want to punch him so badly. Break his face and wipe that snarky look off his face.

But I won't. Not because I know my fist would go through him, but the fact that any reaction from me would only make him gloat. And that's the one thing that does make me crazy – that did make my go crazy.

"Hey Kyle," he says in his pretentious voice. "Did you miss me?"

He laughs. His fat, protruding belly jiggling behind his red sweater. Chalky, pale cheeks jiggle in tune. He's like a ripping wave. Everything moves and ripples across the large expanse that is Eric Cartmen.

Saying his name, even if it's in my head, fills me with barely repressed disgust. I can feel the bile rising up in the back of my throat, but I hold it back. Just like I always have. Fighting the urge give in to confrontation I turn my back to him. He may have stripped me of my life, worse than I had done to his, but he had not taken my pride. That's what he wanted and it was the one thing I would never give to him.

"Aww that hurts, Kyle."

I hate the way my name rolls off his tongue. Dragging the 'y' for longer than is necessary. Bastard. He's behind me now. I can't see him, obviously. But I can feel him. The space around me is suddenly ice cold and my body reacts, goosebumps rising against the flesh of my arms, causing my hair to stand on end.

"You can't ignore me, Kyle."

I remain obstinate. I will not say a word. I refuse to give him that satisfaction. I will remain stoic in my emotions and I will not let him win. Not anymore.

He's angry now. I can feel it. The air has dropped to a nearly unbearable temperature.

"You owe me! You killed me!" he's shrieking now.

"No I didn't fat ass." I respond calmly, despite my inner struggle for control.

He let's out an arduous growl, "You pushed me."

His words come out clipped and each one is stressed to emphasize his point. I laugh in response. It's cold, and empty. Fitting; given the situation. "You pushed me first."

"So?! Doesn't mean you have to kill me you stupid Jew!"

I sigh. The conversation is as old and faded as my worn down shirt. My act of murder had never been premeditated. It was an act of fate. We fought – nothing outside the usual daily routine – and he shoved me. We were on the second story of his house. His back to the wooden railing. The combined force of my shove and his weight caused the wood to splinter and crack. The rest is history.

I always knew his weight would be the death of him, but I always thought it would come in the form of a heart attack. Or implosion.

He's screaming at me now. Nothing coherent. Just screaming, and I'm sure, had he been solid he would have been breaking things. I am unphased. This usual routine between us is as never-ending as our animosity towards each other.

"Get out, Cartmen." I turn around to face him.

"This isn't over, Kyle!" his eyes narrow and he is glowering at me.

"It never is," I reply, staring him dead in the eye.

With one last withering look he is gone, leaving me alone once again to stare into the starch-white, padded walls. I'm in a crazy house because I see the ghost of my enemy.

My name is Kyle Broflovski and if anyone gets a hold of this journal, then know that I am perfectly sane and to keep watch for a restless soul who's only purpose, in life and death, is to make my life a living hell. A stark, white living hell.

Dated: October 31, 2009.


End file.
